Negative space, p.13
Negative Space, page 13
“How nice.”
Dwayne shrugged. “She reminds me of myself.”
Max was quiet. Karen emerged from the darkness and strode toward the van.
“Think I left my cigarettes in the car,” she muttered.
“We should probably get going soon,” Dwayne said, pushing himself up.
Max said, “I should probably care a lot more than I do right now.”
Dwayne looked at him.
“Probably the alcohol talking,” Max continued. “I don’t know, I do care, but really, after this ridiculous weekend it’s a nice little cherry on top...and it’s not even really a cherry, I’d say. It makes sense. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the only thing that’s made sense this week.”
“Okay,” Dwayne said. “I was feeling weirder with you not knowing.”
“Funny...seems like that would be Karen’s job.”
Dwayne leaned in closer to Max. “Well, that girl’s got good bark. I’m sure she’s into the what-you-don’t-know-won’t-hurt-you theory. But I think she was also just afraid of losing you before knowing you. Maybe.”
Dwayne headed for the car while Max remained on the ground, salvaging whole parts of thought from the liquor.
“So what am I supposed to do?” Max said with a faint smirk. “Act all betrayed? Throw a tantrum? Would that be the normal way to respond?”
“All up to you, Maximo,” said Dwayne, turning slightly toward him. “Anarchy for everyone is only an excuse away.”
***
II
Around two-thirty Sunday morning, the lights of Los Angeles rose up in the windshield, lambent acne on the dark face of the hills. For simplicity’s sake, Max told Dwayne he could drop him off at the Sirens Shop, only a mile or two from Karen’s apartment in eastern Santa Monica.
A hug from Karen and a shake from Dwayne and Max was out of the van and back in his nightly hole.
His co-worker Tyler, covering for him that night, sat slouched at a personal computer that’d been set up just behind the counter, clicking away at boxes and graphics on the bright humming screen. With every command, the machine croaked and groaned.
“Wow,” said Max. “Jerry finally got the computer going.”
“Yeah, he finally came through,” said Tyler. “How’s your trip? You back already?”
“No, you’re hallucinating again.”
“Thanks.” Tyler had not pulled his eyes from the screen. “You should be nice to me. I worked the day shift, too. And now I’m here covering your vacationing ass.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t any vacation.” Max sighed long and hard. “So why did Jerry have you work your shift and mine? Wasn’t Hector or anyone available?”
“There was a little scandal on Friday, when you left. Jerry found some weed in the back room and called up everyone to see whose it was or if anyone would point fingers, but no one did. No one’s fessing up, and I’m the only one he can account for, so he pretty much fired everyone else.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I think Mrs. Jerry might be holding out or something. He’s been a prick lately.”
Max ran a clawed hand through his hair. “Well, I’m here, so you can take off.”
“I will in a second. Waiting for something to load here.”
“How’s the computer?” Max said. “I know exactly nothing about them.”
“It’s pretty decent. IBM, 16 megahertz, 4 megabytes of system RAM, Windows 3.1. Should make the day more interesting—or night.” Tyler sat back and put his hands on his head. “That’s right, I forgot, you hate computers, don’t you?”
“Don’t hate them, really,” Max said. “I just get bad vibes from them, like one day it’s going to start talking to me in a HAL voice. Try to destroy me.”
“Well, we got just about a decade before that happens, right?”
“Why?”
“2001?”
“Oh. Right.”
Tyler crossed his legs. “Jerry’s looking into hooking us up to the Internet, too.”
“Oh right. Internet. God. Hear the word floating around but still don’t really know what exactly it is.”
“It’s a cyberspace-satellite thing, I think, where you can go to all these different places for companies or ads or school stuff.”
“Okay. That doesn’t really help.”
“It’s like electronic billboards, or the Yellow Pages. Jerry wants to put one up for the shop, actually.”
“They’d allow that?”
Tyler shrugged. He clicked furiously but the screen had frozen.
“Hell with it,” Tyler said. “I’m off.”
The kid got up and Max assumed his seat.
“Oh, by the way,” Tyler said as he gathered his things. “Some guy came in here earlier in the evening, like eight-ish. Kind of a tall guy, scrubbed. Yuppie-type. Asked about you.”
“No name?”
“No name. Seemed disappointed you weren’t here, though. When I said you were on a trip he got kind of pale and asked if I knew who you went with. Told him I had no idea.”
Max nodded.
“Okay, man, I’m gone.”
“Yeah, go home and crash. Later.”
“See you.”
Nothing for the next three hours, a calm and empty night, and Max forced himself upon his sketchbook. Draw, draw. All efforts, all products of all efforts, plastic. Unconvincing. Come on, asshole. Feldman. It was Feldman who had siphoned, vampire-like, his drawing. Max had left his art in that unreal recess, buried in shadow, mere traces clinging to him, soon to dissolve in time. Goddammit goddammit goddammit.
A breath of relief when the door chimed open, and the night rushed in along with a purple-haired French girl in need of a vibrator. Nice nice breasts. Fun accent. Brimming with desire tangible. When she left, the drawing got easier, sort of. Little more fluid. It was as if she’d delivered a short burst of life-energy upon which Max fed.
Vampire-like.
***
“I owe you, don’t I?” Karen asked, as the van cruised down a vacant Centinela Avenue.
“Owe me what?” Dwayne said.
“Money—for everything.”
“You already paid me.”
“Yeah, but you and I both know that wasn’t your full price. Plus, I owe you for the gas and for this trip.”
Dwayne threw up an eh, whatever gesture but didn’t refuse the offer.
“Just come on up,” Karen said. “I’ll cut you another check.”
“Karen, honestly, don’t worry about it—”
She clamped her hands over her ears. “Shush! I’m gonna give you more money! Final!”
Dwayne said nothing further as he slid the van into a tight space half a block from Karen’s complex.
***
She opened the door and led Dwayne into darkness. A block north, Pico Boulevard spoke in hushed tones. Karen hurried to the kitchen light switch, then stopped by her room to unload her backpack.
Hands in pockets, Dwayne took in the scene before him: the coffee table a debauched skyline, towering bottles of vodka and gin and whisky. Some dented beer cans, fallen on the floor. Condom wrappers torn and strewn on the couch cushions. The odor of cigarettes and sharp skunky weed dominated the air.
“Someone had a hell of a time here,” Dwayne said.
“Vivian’s crazy like that,” Karen said from her room. She came out with her checkbook in hand and went to the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of water.
She noticed something on the counter.
“Looks like Viv actually wrote down my calls,” she said. Her eyes widened. Under an exasperated breath, she uttered, “How’d he get this number?”
“Everything all right?”
She downed the rest of the water. “Were you planning on leaving soon?”
“You mean here? Or—”
“Los Angeles. Were you planning to leave Los Angeles soon?”
“Well, after your job I was. Had some stuff on the itinerary but it can wait if need be. Why? What’s wrong?”
“I may need you to do something else for me. Just to set my mind at ease. And if there is something going on, then maybe we can gather enough evidence to go to the cops....”
Dwayne stepped forward. “What’s going on?”
“Hold on a sec,” she said, placing the checkbook and pen on the counter. “Be right back. Smallest bladder in the West, you know.”
As she scurried off to the bathroom, Dwayne went over to the counter and picked up the slip of paper Vivian had left for her. The girl’s handwriting was large and loopy, off-putting. But it was legible.
K—
A James C. called like 50 times for Penelope...(?) He from ur work?
***
Max slept for only four hours, the most he’d rested since returning from Twilight Falls a week and a half ago.
With sluggish momentum, he collected several pieces of art and took the Metro toward Venice Beach, carrying under his arm five works wrapped in a blanket. All the usuals, with one exception: Moon Watch. It sat now in his closet at his studio, the old acrylic face of Darren Higgins, the face that had become Clifford Feldman, sunk beneath three layers of Titanium White, the canvas now a virgin white soil in which anything could grow, entombing further the old work and the old face.
The sun was high and lively and beating at the beach, but a constant breeze undermined its warmth. Portentous fog gathered out at sea, an encroaching marine layer like a ghostly cavalry waiting to charge.
Jiggling change. Dwayne’s buddy. The bum. Johnny, was it?
“Support your local wino!” Johnny cried. “Help me to a liquor store! Help me forget my troubles!”
Max set up about twenty yards from Johnny on the fringe of a grassy hill. The base of a lone drooping palm, an oasis in the grimy cement rivers walkways winding across the shoreline. The sun bright. He fished through his pockets, checking for his sunglasses, then noticed something.
His neck was bare. The necklace. The gold cross. It wasn’t there.
Oh God—what the—where is it—mattress—okay—took a shower—had it off—left it by the mattress—left it by the mattress—forgot it—
—forgot it.
Two young men, hands in a white-knuckle twine, stopped to survey his work.
“Oh, I like this one,” one said, pointing to Geometric Skull.
“Little creepy, isn’t it?” said the other. Higher voice. He pointed to Angel Grass. “What about that one? Might look good in your bathroom.”
“How much for that one?” said the first.
Max cleared his throat. “That one’s seventy-five.”
“Hmm. Yeah, I could go with that one.”
“This one?” Max made sure, gesturing toward Angel Grass.
They both nodded. Delicately he handed it to the second man, who took it just as delicately. The couple moved off with Max’s piece and Max folded the money and stuffed it into his back pocket.
Then, just next to him: “Hey there.”
A familiar voice, muffled by the many others passing. Max turned.
The guy from The Schoolhouse, the shop. The Mover and Shaker, clad now not in his money-clothes but in denim shorts and a collarless shirt. James—yes, this time he was sure of the name, but only because he’d now seen this man too often.
“Hey,” said Max, with only fleeting eye contact. “How’s it going?”
“Not too bad. Max, right?”
“Right.”
“This looks like a good place to sell artwork. This where you make your sales?”
“For now. I’ve been in kind of a dry spell lately.”
“I see. Well, I have some good news for you. I don’t know if you remember, but I mentioned once to you a gallery that I was thinking of opening—”
“I remember, yeah.”
“Well, it’s a go. I’ve got the place, and I’m in contact with a few artists and I want to have the grand opening this summer.”
“Really?”
“Indeed. I’ve even been working on a few pieces myself. I’m a bit of a sculptor. Well, was a sculptor. I’m kind of getting back into things. I haven’t started them but I’m just formulating. I’m sure you know how that goes. Getting things squared away.”
“I know, yeah.”
Get out of my goddamn face.
James nodded. “I wanted to let you know, too, that I really like your work. I saw some of it on the Internet, on the page for Direct Canvas.”
“My stuff is on the Internet?”
“Uh-huh. There was one in particular I really liked. Can’t remember the name of it, unfortunately, but when I saw it I felt The Spark. You know that—you feel it with women, you feel it with art. Just hits you. I want to do something like that.”
While curious as to what piece he was referring, Max kept his replies to a minimum. “Glad to be of service.”
Both men stared into the stream of people before them. The marine layer edged closer to shore and the air grew damp, breezes barbed with a chill.
James said, “I heard you were on a trip.”
Max nodded. “Was up north. Visiting family.”
Visiting family hah visiting family what the what the—
“Traveling alone?” James said.
Finally Max faced him, made eye contact. “Why do you care?”
“No real reason. Just curious, that’s all. Sorry to pry.”
Wind snapping now, the cottony tendrils of fog curling lethargically inland.
“I guess I’ll leave you be,” James said. “I’m probably a nuisance unless I buy something, right?”
Max said nothing.
***
James Cannon walked the beach and thought of her.
She, a shimmering mirage in his mind that was growing stronger, riding every other synapse, becoming a stomachache in his brain. What would she say if he just...told her? Upchucked these feelings, let her sort them out? She was probably used to guys doing that. But maybe from him she would find it distantly endearing. Charming. He could be the exception. She was kinky, wild—she’d have to be to work at a place like The Schoolhouse, where just being an employee entailed risks. How much of a stretch was it to think she wouldn’t take it one step further, give in to her curiosity by accepting at least a night with him?
“Penelope?” the girl on the other end had said, as if she were genuinely confused. “She’s not available.”
Twice now she hadn’t been available. Odd. Bad timing too, bad bad timing. In her mourning, Teresa had not been given much to sex and so much of his energy of late had gone into the office. Other things too. His art. Yeah, what art? You wish. Maybe Max could be his mentor. How degrading would that be? Ask him. Ask him. Max knew Penelope, too—somehow there had to be a way in. Yet all such ways seemed dark and narrow, perfect for the lesser creatures: the worms, the weasels.
She’s avoiding me.
He wondered if her roommate had given her his messages. Hopefully she wasn’t creeped out by his calling. She was probably intrigued. It probably turned her on.
Maybe one day he could sculpt her.
Immortalize her.
***
Dwayne hated lawyers. Well-deserved reputation they had. Every joke, corny or harsh, echoing some sad, animal truth. Investors as well. There was a kinship between the two, the suits that thrived on base reflex. Sharp-toothed instinct. This guy Cannon so conformed to the look, too. The clothes, the attaché case. The myopia of his movement. Animated not on any one soul but an assemblage of souls sired from others. A Frankensoul.
“Can you keep an eye on this guy for me?” Karen had said in her apartment, just after they’d returned from the trip up north.
He’d asked what was wrong. She bit her lip, her demeanor tightening. She sat tentatively on the edge of her couch, inches from her roommate’s party mess, eyes lost in haunting possibilities.
“Nothing is wrong yet,” she said. “This client of mine just creeps me out. I haven’t worked, you know, where I work for very long, but I haven’t had anyone as...serious as him.”
“He’s the guy who called fifty times?” Dwayne said.
“You saw the message,” Karen said rhetorically. “Yeah. Seems a little crazy to me.”
“To me too. What would you like me to do? See if he has a record?”
“I guess. I think maybe just the more I know about him the more at ease I’ll be. Maybe.”
She had dictated to him basic physical features and he had sketched his face. Then she’d given him the model and plates of his car.
“Sounds like you’re more than creeped out,” Dwayne said.
“I’ve learned to be on the defensive since leaving home.” Karen had sighed. “I think I’m going to lie low. Rose’ll be cool if I don’t go in much this week. My appointment load is low. I won’t take any more.”
Preliminary searching had brought up no records. Scarcely even a traffic violation. For several days now, Dwayne had watched him—long days at the office, a coffee run, even a Tuesday morning manicure. Like I’m on safari, he thought. First sighting had been at The Schoolhouse—yet with the way Cannon had walked in, briefcase in hand, it’d seemed more business than pleasure.
Dwayne also saw him at the beach.
Max. He’s talking to Max.
Once Cannon moved away, he approached Max, who sat on a blanket surrounded by his artwork, elbows rested on his knees. Same position as when they’d met.
“Hey there,” said Dwayne. “Back at the beach.”
Max shook his head. “How many more people know I’m here?”
“Why were you chatting with that guy? You know him?”
“Not really. I’ve seen him at The Schoolhouse and at my shop. He’s putting together an exhibit he wants me in.”
“Exhibit?”
“Yeah, so he says.”
“Karen tell you about him?”
“In a manner of speaking. I first saw him with Karen.” Max hesitated. “Is...she okay?”
“She’s all right. Taking a few days off work.”
“That guy, James,” Max said, gesturing to the crowds. “He came into the Sirens Shop to buy Schoolhouse videos. He saw I worked there.”
